The Vietnamization of an Angel
by Just Add Sanity
Summary: What made Aziraphale blend in was the haggard expression, the dark circles under his eyes, the lines of stress on his face, the cracked skin covering his body, the bloody knuckles, the dirt under his fingernails, and the blisters on his feet. M for war.
1. Chapter 1

**Right, so, first story ever submitted here, & in all honesty, this isn't one of those "please be easy on me" things because of that. I'm not all that confident in this fic, but... I've finished it, so what I can I say.**

**Vietnamese is spoken most of the time in this fic, but since I don't know Vietnamese & I'm sure you don't know Vietnamese either, it's in English. (Plus, I have this thing against mixing two languages together if only one is spoken.)**

**Crowley & Aziraphale do not belong to me. If they did, they would have never appeared in Good Omens (written by Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, by the way), as they would be locked up in my basement for my own entertainment.**

**The Vietnam War also does not belong to me. This is said just in case JFK, LBJ, or Nixon ever decide to find me & sue me for copyright.**

* * *

Aziraphale didn't understand why he was still alive. It was ineffable, he supposed, but it didn't seem _possible_, let alone fair.

His Western features looked out of place in a nón lá, sandals, a baggy stained shirt that might have been long-sleeved and white at some point, and brown trousers that had similar stains. His British was still apparent in his Vietnamese too. What made Aziraphale look even more out-of-place was his surroundings. He sat on a mat outside of a hut, too tired now to walk. Brave weeds were smashed into the ground due to the traffic of people moving about. There were no paved roads, or street signs, or addresses, or quaint little bakeries, or high-rise apartments, or anything of the sort.

What made him blend in was the haggard expression, the dark circles under his eyes, the lines of stress on his face, the cracked skin covering his body, the bloody knuckles, the dirt under his fingernails, and the blisters on his feet. Even his hair, once golden, blended in, matted with dirt and blood. Aziraphale was almost tempted to miracle himself clean, but that wouldn't do anything to help the situation. No, he had enough miracles to perform already, and it would look strange to see a clean figure in such circumstances anyway.

There was a cry, a splash of water, gasps, and the sound of someone being rushed to a cot. Aziraphale hurried into the house behind him.

"No! Oh no no no no _no_… Not now. Not now," the woman on the bed sobbed in Vietnamese. She was pregnant. Aziraphale was there in a flash with a wet towel on her forehead. No one stopped him; the village had grown somewhat used to his presence in the few days he had been there. He hushed and soothed. He was no doctor, but he could at least bring calm and, hopefully, joy to the mother. A child was a gift from God, after all. The woman grasped his hand and squeezed, and he tried to give a reassuring smile in return.

The baby was delivered, and the woman cried half in joy, half in fear. It was a small thing, premature and frail.

Three days later the child died. The mother wouldn't speak. Her other three children tried to make up for the lack of a father and a distressed mother. Four days later Aziraphale left. He was worried, but there wasn't much else for him to do, and there were many other villages that needed help.

- _ - _ - _ -

The next village was a little more wary in accepting Aziraphale. They stared at him with suspicious eyes, unsure whether they could trust him or not. Aziraphale smiled as much as he could, trying to send waves of reassurance. The village refused to take him in, but he didn't mind – he hadn't even asked. Angels didn't need sleep, anyways. He tried to help tend to the gardens to make them lush, and the village perked up somewhat.

Aziraphale thought things were going reasonably well before a fight broke out between a husband and wife over one of their sons. From what Aziraphale overheard, their son ran off a couple of weeks ago, and the wife blamed her husband. The argument had finally erupted into a scrap.

The wife now sat huddled next to Aziraphale, who tended to her cuts and bruises. He feared she had a broken arm and wrist as well, and did his best with that. Aziraphale himself had earned a black eye, a broken nose, and had to put his shoulder back into its socket, but those things could heal once he left the village. For the moment, it would be strange if they miraculously disappeared. The wife was one thing; he could wait.

The wife stayed with Aziraphale for some time afterwards. He could understand why, he supposed, but was worried of what she would do when he left. He felt a twinge of guilt, but he couldn't help it. How could he stay when so many were dying? The areas he was in now were in much better conditions than villages that had been torn through by the military.

He decided he would stay for just a few more days before leaving. He'd try to either find someone else for her to stay with until then, or fix the relationship, but he wasn't so sure about the latter.

The day after Aziraphale left the United States military ripped the village apart in their quest to find the Viet Cong. He saw the husband being taken away as a prisoner for interrogation. He was crying.

Aziraphale looked away.

- _ - _ - _ -

The light blinked on Aziraphale's answerphone, and a voice half hissed at the empty bookshop.

"You've been gone for over a month without saying anything now. You're pretty touchy if my joke about you looking like the guy on those American Monopoly games got you. If you are, get over it."

The answerphone beeped.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale found himself cheered by the next village. They smiled at him and were happy for his knowledge of Vietnamese. He played games with the children, who also took to him quickly. One day, while the children ate, they decided to question him.

"Why are you so skinny like us, but you don't eat? Aren't you hungry?" The boy was smaller than the rest, but his eyes were large and filled with hope. Aziraphale liked him.

"Oh, no. Not at all." He smiled.

"You're lying," another one said. "You can have some of mine if you want."

"That's fine, dear, but thank you." Aziraphale waved away the food, hoping that the hunger in his eyes wasn't _too _obvious.

"You sure?"

He nodded.

"Where are you from?"

"Britain, dear."

"Why are you here? You're not dressed like the rest of them, and you don't have a gun. You don't have a camera, either. You just have that book. What's it about?"

Aziraphale took the invitation to ignore the boy's first question and answered the last. "It's about God. It's a version of the Bible that I particularly like."

"I don't have any books. Can you read it?"

"Yes, of course. Would you like to hear a story?"

The children all smiled and nodded. Aziraphale chose the New Testament to read from, picking out the most promising verses, the most loving ones.

And when Aziraphale had finished, the smallest boy broke the silence.

"I don't believe you. If your God loves us so much, then why are there so many people dying?"

It was like a punch in the gut. He faltered, before answering.

"He does, it's just that some people from far away don't understand what God wants and are letting themselves be manipulated."

The boy pondered this for a moment.

"I don't think your story is real." The other children nodded in agreement, frowning. Aziraphale was at a loss. How was he supposed to explain the ineffable when he didn't even understand it?

- _ - _ - _ -

Aziraphale felt something rip inside of him as a mother handed of the smallest of the children off to him. He checked momentarily if he was bleeding, but there was no wound. She pleaded with him to run. There were other children around him. One was on his back, one was in his arms, and three were tugging at his pants. She seemed to put all of her trust into him as she dashed back to her house in an attempt to make it seem as if no one had abandoned it. To sacrifice herself in the hopes that her children might live.

The army had already shredded the majority of the village with bullets and fire - it was only a matter of time before they reached Aziraphale. The sound of fire and cries and gunshots rang in his ears, making him deaf to everything else. He looked to the children. He swallowed hard. He couldn't carry them all.

"Run –as fast as you can – don't pay attention to anyone else – just _run_. I'll find you by the end of the day."

He ran with the children. There wasn't much else he could do. His mind raced as fast as his feet did, pictures of men, women, and children in ditches, pictures of soldiers and guns, pictures of them crying, the men, women, and children too.

He felt weightless for a moment before he crashed into the ground, the smallest child tumbling out from his arms. The one on his back started to run, but was stopped with a sudden jerking movement before falling. The smallest child didn't move.

It took him a moment to realize he had been shot in the back of the knee. He felt another shot enter his lower back to the side.

Aziraphale tried desperately to get up. If he wasn't able to get to those children by nightfall then…

Another shot. It missed. He realized that if he tried moving again he might be discorporated entirely. He feigned the hit, this time, slumping.

"Think he's dead?" A man shouted behind him. He spoke in English with an American accent.

"Dunno. Shoot 'em again!"

"Wait!" He cried. The next shot was dangerously close to his head.

"'The hell!?"

"I'm… I'm not…" He pulled off his nón lá and did his best to flip over.

"Hey! He's not a Cong! Wuddoaye do?"

"We had orders to shoot everyone in the village!"

"Yeah? Well Gerwin can kiss my ass! This guy's not a Cong for sure. Looks like he was trying to help some children. Maybe he's part of the media?"

"You kidding!? _Definitely_ shoot him then!"

Aziraphale coughed. "Not a photographer. Just… here to help… Please. The children."

"Fine! Help him up. Maybe he knows something or whatever." Aziraphale felt himself being hauled up. He supported himself on the soldier and was slowly lead away. He looked back to where the children had fled, and the only one that was still visible was the small one from where he had dropped him. The boy wasn't moving.

But there-

Aziraphale's unnecessary breath hitched. The boy had opened his eyes. Slowly, ever slowly, he started to crawl away.

There were other soldiers now. Another gunshot. The boy's body slumped.


	3. Chapter 3

"Just tell us" _thwack_ "what the Congs" _thunk_ "are planning!" _Crash._

Aziraphale entered the tent to find a Vietnamese man crumpled on the floor, his hands behind his back. He tried to get up but failed, unable to do so without the use of his arms. Aziraphale reached out from behind the soldiers to help him.

"Eh? Who are you and what the fuck are you doing here?" One of the soldiers asked, glaring.

"Helping. I know Vietnamese. Perhaps I could be of assistance? Of course, only if you treat this man properly."

The man scoffed. "You know Vietnamese? Well lookieee here, ain't you special? We're supposed to have a translator come in, just in case he don't understand us, but I'm pretty sure he does."

"I can translate," Aziraphale offered almost hopefully.

"How do you know Vietnamese, anyway?"

"I've been here long enough to have learned it." It was tough, sometimes, not to outright lie. Sometimes Aziraphale did, but the angel did his best to pass it off as necessary, harmless lies that were only made to keep his cover as an angel.

"Fine. Say something to him in Vietnamese. Tell him to stand up."

Aziraphale did so. The man made a pained sound. Aziraphale tried again, explaining that he was trying to help. He seemed to be using that explanation a lot, lately.

It only seemed to work as an explanation, so far.

The man stood up.

"Tell him to lick my boots."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, sorry."

"Well how'm'I supposed ta' know he didn't just handily decide to stand up, and yer just lyin' or something?"

"I'll tell him to clap his hands, if such an example is needed." And Aziraphale did. The man clapped his hands. The ropes on his wrists were gone. The soldiers didn't seem to notice.

"Now, how about we sit him down so that he can clear his head in order to answer your questions with a sounder mind?"

- _ - _ - _ -

Aziraphale decided that the true purpose of interrogation was for soldiers to vent their frustrations in ways other than drugs and killing themselves. Physically vent. Vent in a way that had left a certain middle-aged Vietnamese man with what could have been a broken nose and wrist, along with a body full of welts. Luckily, though, it had seemed that after the entire ordeal, his body had decided to become much more efficient at recuperating, and the wounds disappeared.

Aziraphale's broken wrist had decided to heal too, as well as his black eye. It was difficult to try to translate and protect a defenseless man at the same time.

The angel glanced to the forest where he expected the children were, or should have been, now. He looked back once at the camp, and left with a backpack full of silly-string, peanut butter, water, and a few blankets.


	4. Chapter 4

"Azsiraphale, you bastard, get back to me this instant. This is getting ridiculous. Where are you? I haven't gone to the Ritz in five months. You haven't been _back_, in five months. Don't listen to my other messages, by the way. I'll be in St. James Park once every-so-often if you ever decide to drag your sorry ass over there."

The answerphone beeped and the light flickered off.

- _ - _ - _ -

The forest was beautiful, Aziraphale noted. In some sort of hungered, delusionary daze caused by his body simply following suit of his mind, Aziraphale was watching the rays of light filter in from the forest's canopy. He wondered if God used to appear in those because they looked like hope. He decided against it later, though. How could God exist there? In Vietnam?

"Is there anymore of that peanuty stuff?"

Aziraphale glanced at the boy and nodded. He took a container from his pack and handed it to the young boy, who ate it earnestly with his friend. It was the last one. Aziraphale wondered if they should have been hastier in their travels to the next village. The children would need more food, and soon.

He suddenly heard shouting

And gunshots.

And more shouting.

"Quickly! Here, get behind those bushes by that tree and make yourself as small as possible." Aziraphale did his best to try to hide the children from view, hoping that a few extra miracles would help.

"I'm scared," whimpered the boy still clinging onto the peanut-butter container. Aziraphale held his hand for a moment to calm him down, hiding himself with them.

"Hush now. That's a dear."

The shouting was louder. In a period of time that seemed both painstakingly long as well as surprisingly short, soldiers were rushing through the area, shooting almost blindly. One of the boys nearly let out a cry of fear, but Aziraphale put a hand on his mouth. It was the politest mode possible to keep them alive.

"I could have sworn I saw a couple go through here!" The voice was in English. American soldiers, no doubt.

"Keep your eyes out then! I don't wanna be shot by no Cong 'cause you was too stupid to pay attention to where they were."

A bird landed in the tree above where they were hiding. It squawked. Aziraphale heard a curse, a gunshot, and the muffled, frightened cry of a young boy.

"There! I heard one!"

Before Aziraphale could even stand to try to prevent the gunshot it went off, and the boy he had hushed slumped in his arms. The other boy gave out a chocked sob and started crying, nearly screaming as he grasped at the body of his now lifeless friend.

"Hey! That ain't sound like no Cong!"

"Because we _ain't_ no Congs!" Aziraphale stood up angrily, but the lines in his face and the fatigue of his body made him appear much less authoritative than he had hoped for. He huffed, glaring. He felt something gather at the corners of his eyes.

"Then why were you hiding out in the bushes then!? How could we tell? You shouldn'ta hid in the first place!" One of the soldier's replied.

"How could we know what side you were on? In fact, does that even matter? You probably would have just shot us anyways!"

"How do you know if we woulda or not? In case you haven't noticed, this is a damn _war_ we're in! What are you doing hiding out here if you're afraid to get shot? Go back home, you Brit."

A loud slap rang out. For a moment, all was silent save the wailing of the young boy. Aziraphale glared at the soldier. He called over the remaining child. When the child didn't come, Aziraphale called once more before using a tone that _dared_ to be opposed. The boy got up, still crying. He looked positively dreadful with the tears combining with the dirt and the blood and the peanut butter.

"Now," he said, taking the boy's hand, "you're going to take care of this boy, and you damn well better make sure that nothing happens to him."

The soldier nodded blindly. There was another moment of silence that the soldier's friend decided to interrupt.

"How 'bout we get the hell out of here before we get shot?" Aziraphale nodded. They left, leaving the body of a young boy to rot with a container of peanut butter still in his hands.


	5. Chapter 5

The angel looked forlornly at the Vietnamese boy, who had decided to confide in him in the middle of the night when the soldiers were all asleep. Well, most of them, anyways. Finally, he sighed, giving up.

"I don't know if we're going to survive."

Lying was a sin, after all.

- _ - _ - _ -

"I'm hungry."

Aziraphale winced, and then smiled. He rubbed the boy's shoulders and tried to catch his eyes.

"I'll go get something for you then. Okay?" A nod. "That's a dear." He patted him on the shoulder before walking out of sight. He willed a bowl of soup into his hands. It felt like lifting three hundred pounds.

He went back, gave the boy the soup, and then passed out.

- _ - _ - _ -

Aziraphale woke up. There was a light buzzing incessantly in the room. His eyes retracted from the sudden brightness of everything. He wished the walls weren't so white, but they stayed that way, stubbornly.

He groaned, adjusted himself into a more comfortable position, and then closed his eyes.

Then he sat up.

"Where are-"

"They're most likely dead, if yer wonderin' 'bout yer pals," answered a young male voice in the cot next to his. Aziraphale looked over. He was bandaged up on the right side of his face, and from the cast on his leg, it looked like he was just a bit wounded. Another soldier, then.

He was tired of soldiers.

"Yes… I suppose so." Aziraphale sighed.

"Hey," the angel looked up diffidently, "where you from? You ain't from The World."

He gave the man a perplexed look. "The… pardon? _The World_, dear?"

"Yeah, yanno - back home. The States. The United States of America. Them states."

"Oh. No, not from there."

The soldier snorted. "'Parently not, but I asked you where were you from."

Aziraphale held his tongue from correcting every single grammatical mistake the man was making, but held off. This wasn't a time to be cheeky, and the man was only trying to talk.

He just felt irritated. Worn down. Talking was the last thing Aziraphale felt like doing, and of all people, he didn't think this _soldier_ deserved any of his company.

"I'm from England. Great Britain. The UK. Whatever you feel like calling it. How long have I been here?"

"You definitely sound like one of 'em hoity-toity Brits. You've been here for a week or so. The nurses brought you in. Didn't know what was wrong with you. Apparently you were just passed out, near the outside of a camp. Hey- do they really drink tea all the time there?"

"Well, if they're in the mood, I suppose."

"Ha, ain't gonna get any tea here. It's a wasteland. Piece of shit place – it's hell. Hopefully, if my injuries are bad enough, I can get back to The World."

"Lovely."

The soldier turned to Aziraphale, fixing him with a stare that he was obligated to return. He seemed to study his face for a while until talking again.

"Say, why you here anyway? I mean, you don't seem like no soldier. Is it 'cause of Australia? They're supposed to be fightin' over here too, but I ain't seen none of them yet."

"I'm here to help."

At that the soldier snorted again.

"Help? Help what? This war isn't going nowhere fast."

Aziraphale gritted his teeth.

"Help the _Vietnamese people_. The people you're slaughtering. And it's: _the war isn't going anywhere fast._"

The soldier paused. He looked at Aziraphale, frowning, scrunching his face up in a way that made him think that he might throw up. Then he said:

"Yeah. People we're slaughtering all right. And they're slaughtering us right back, with kids, too. A kid ran up to my friend the other day, holding his hand up. My friend was about to get some food to hand him - yanno, just something to make the kid happy and go away. You know what happened when that kid pulled that hand down? "

Aziraphale didn't answer. He had a good idea, but he didn't want to say it. He didn't want to be right.

"He blew up. My friend died, and so did the two other guys next to him. That was a week before I came here. I was lucky. I just got too close to a guy who stepped on a mine."

Aziraphale turned over, away from the soldier in the cot next to him.

"Hey! Don't you be thinkin' that you're all high'n'mighty for being here t'help these poor Vietnamese people. It's not like we chose to be here. We just didn't run away, like everyone else."

He didn't answer. He just thought about how he didn't care. About how he would never go back to America. About how that country didn't deserve to have _under God _ in their pledge.

- _ - _ - _ -

"Look, did something happen? Really, what's with you? It's been over six months. I'm about ready to rip that damn door down and come find you, you stupid angel.

And I…

Nevermind."

_Beep._

- _ - _ - _ -

"So, where you from?" the gruff man who probably looked much older than what he really was, asked Aziraphale. He must have been a general of some sort with those stars and badges and strips of color on his crisp uniform. Aziraphale wouldn't be able to tell for sure, though. He never bothered to figure out military rankings or symbols.

"England." The younger man next to the general, even crisper, head shaved, wrote something down a clipboard. Aziraphale felt paranoid.

"And why are you here?"

"To help the Vietnamese."

"You a Cong?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Positive, dear."

"What was that?"

"I said, _positive, dear_."

The general turned a shade akin to that of a raspberry. The younger soldier chuckled. Apparently this was motivation enough for the general to keep it all in. _Oh, you wouldn't want to lose it in front of him, now would you?_ he thought to himself.

"Right. Well, we'll need to get you some identification, and then we can ship you on out of here. I know you'd love ta' stay and be a hippy with all that Beatles peace and love crap going on over there, but we can't have you here. You can walk now?"

"Yes. More than I could a few weeks ago."

"Good."

And the general left him. Aziraphale hoped in a bitter, sarcastic way, that he hadn't wasted any of the man's precious time. After all, there were still some Vietnamese people left.

- _ - _ - _ -

It was the rustling of sheets next to him that made Aziraphale get up the next night while the moon was still shining. There was a pause, a pained whisper of _fuck_, and the rustling started again.

Oh, well, apparently the man's cast was off. That meant that he'd either be going home soon, or going back out.

"Are you okay?" he risked asking. The sheets moved around a bit until the man whipped them off entirely. His leg was bruised, and had a near-blue tint to it. It made Aziraphale scrunch his face in a mix of antipathy and revulsion.

"This damn thing," he hissed, and it wasn't too hard to figure out what he was referring to, "it's not healed yet, damn it, but they took the cast off. I'm leavin' tomorrow."

"Oh, well that's good."

"Fuck, not _home_, out _there_, back in hell."

Aziraphale pondered the man's comparison, and then gave up. He had never been Down There before.

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Psh, sure you are, fruit cake. Have fun sipping tea. I'll probably get blown up, or incinerated, or fall in a ditch filled with spikes."

Despite his mood, he frowned and stretched out a hand, placing it on the soldier's shoulder. The boy's shoulder.

He wished he was able to bless people, but he was sure that even if he could, there was no sort of Heavenly blessing that he could give to a man in these conditions.

The next day Aziraphale was on a flight to London. It was the only British city Americans knew of.


	6. Chapter 6

"You're a bastard, you know what you cheeky angel? I'm sitting here with a fifty-or-somethin' year-old wine and you're not here at all so I'll just drink it. I don't care that you missed any of our typical meeting times at the park anymore, you know that? So I'll just go and…"

Crowley's incessant whining played out on the answer phone, becoming a familiar background noise. Aziraphale wasn't sure if he should be smiling at it or not – if it should be his own version of a warm welcome home like sappy book or if he should smite it into oblivion. Crowley was drunk in most of the messages anyways, so he ended up ignoring them. He only wanted to get rid of the messages, and since he wasn't sure how to work the machine, other than press the arrow button to play the messages, he'd just let it run out.

Just as he was finishing dusting off his top layer of books, the door was kicked in. He yelped, falling a few meters until he hit the hardwood floor with a resounding _thump_.

"Aziraphale you little prat – if it takes tearing down this store until there's nothing left, I _will _find you!"

"Shut the hell up you incessant demon and leave me alone! Damn it! You could have broken my back and _then _what?"

"… what? Aziraphale? Is that you?"

He hissed. "Who else would it be? I didn't ever think a burglar would try to break into this place and steal some of my Bibles, or pretend to be me, or call you a demon."

"Oh. Uh. Well, where are you?"

Another hiss. "Back here. Third row of books. Damn it, my back…"

There was a hurrying of a feet, and then Crowley was helping him up, dusting off his back and placing his glasses back on his nose after fixing them. He felt like some porcelain doll being put up on display. Aziraphale fixed him a stare.

"Well?"

"Uh… hi." Crowley looked like a kicked puppy, or a disappointed toddler who didn't get his milk, or a mix of both.

"Right, then, since you have nothing worthwhile to be doing here I'll just-"

"No! No… wait. Just- just let me… talk to you? Where have you been?"

"Could we talk about this somewhere more… comfortable?"

"You want to go out somewhere? The Ritz?"

Aziraphale shrugged.

"I was thinking just of finding a chair to sit down in, but sure dear. The Ritz works."

* * *

Nothing seemed real in the restaurant. No one argued over who got more food and if the cooks were jipping them out of something. No one cried, asking to please, _please _just give me _something_ in a language that no one understood. No. Everything was happy. The waitresses smiled, their hair done up in a bun. The couple in the table across from them flirted easily, comfortably, occasionally brushing hands. The wine was set at their table at their wish, and the food was ordered without argument.

It was as if nothing had happened.

Crowley wanted to know what happened.

"Once the drinks come," Aziraphale told him.

The drinks came, and still nothing was said.

"Once the food comes," Aziraphale told him.

The food came. He was silent.

And now the food was gone, and Aziraphale didn't know what to do. He felt cornered by those slitted eyes watching his every move, knowing he'd have to say something _now._ Just when he was beginning to build up the courage to speak, to explain that he had just gone off to France or Spain to get some fresh air or some blatant lie that he knew both of them would never believe, Crowley cuts him off:

"'_Shut the hell up you incessant demon and leave me alone, damn it?_'"

Oh, well. Aziraphale supposed that maybe he had been a little harsh.

"I was just… surprised, dear, that's all."

He sips his wine, not quite meeting the demon's hidden eyes.

"Surprised. Right. So, the next time I'm surprised, I suppose I shall just praise Someone and get down on my knees, asking that Someone for forgiveness, hm?"

"If you'd like. I'd have no problem with it, dear, if that's what you-"

"You shut the hell up! You think that's all this is about? You're _gone_ for over _six months_, you look like _shit,_ there's still _blood_ matted in your hair (you couldn't take a shower but change your clothes?) and the first thing I hear from you is _shut the hell up you incessant demon and leave me alone, damn it_. Some angel you are. Thanks. I was almost worried."

Crowley pushes in his chair, and turns to leave.

"W-wait! Crowley, stay, please," Aziraphale calls, and he realizes that he's done something horribly wrong, and Crowley didn't deserve that, and please, please, just stay. He'll explain. Maybe not all of it, but he'll explain enough so that he understands if he'd just turn around already so Aziraphale could stop trailing behind him, following him to the door and hoping that the restaurant wasn't suspecting them of dine-and-ditching.

Crowley pauses. He doesn't turn around.

"What happened." It's a statement, almost. Aziraphale swallows.

"I… was in Vietnam."

"Why?"

"To help."

"The Americans?"

"No! I mean… no, of course not. Now please dear, can we just go back and sit down?"

"Fine."

Crowley turns around, avoiding even glancing at Aziraphale, and sits back in his seat with a huff. Annoyance and irritation emanate his being.

"I went to Vietnam. I tried to help the people there. I ended up passing out for a week. I had no strength. I couldn't even walk. I went through rehabilitation in an American medical facility set up there. They sent me back."

Aziraphale knows Crowley is searching him, and he starts thinking that it isn't fair again. _He_ should be the one irritated. _He_ had a right to be irritated. And upset. And distressed. And miserable. And he just didn't want to even _be _anymore.

"That's all?"

And that's it.

"Oh, yes, that's _quite _all. I wasn't starving. I wasn't going from village to village, trying to do anything, _anything_, just so that they could survive a day longer. I didn't see kids blown up or shot or burned to death. I wasn't carrying around a few young children, hoping that they might survive. I didn't watch them die without any hope in their eyes left. I didn't see a man get sent out to fight with a broken leg just because his government told him to. The only thing I didn't do, was die. Get discorporated. Whatever."

Crowley puts a hand on his. Aziraphale wonders why his face feels so wet.

And then Crowley says that they should go for a walk, and he doesn't know what else to do so he just nods, takes Crowley's hand, and follows him out the door.

He doesn't even bother to check to see if the money Crowley left on the table was real or not.


End file.
